...US (translation 24/02/13)

" Write us”, you said. Write US. Not about us. Not about what we did. Not about who we were. Not about who we weren’t.

 

WRITE US. With capital letters, nice and clear. With power but in a whisper, leaving in me a mark that will not be filled but with the perfect imperfection of you and me, reflected on the four blank pages I still have in front of me, the same way we reflected on the four walls of that room that became infinite just because we loved each other. That room that deserves a name and surname for being witness of the most honest passion to ever walk this peace of strayed rock.

 

And I ask “why write US?”

 

Because when we love each other even the brightest star cannot compete with us, and when we scream not even the death of the largest supernova leaves us in the background. Because without looking we always find each other one last time under the covers, and at the simple touch of a cheek against the sheets we forget everything else, exhaling promises that will evaporate along with the sweat of nights filled with lies.

 

Because when we walk under the sun only the stupid looks at the sky, and only the crazy dares to question our interlaced fingers.

 

Because no one understood us. Ever. And because we never bothered to be like anyone. We never deeded to. Because there is nothing broken without a snag. Because our story is longer and so much faster than your music; and without thinking about it I would again take off my shoes, and you out to dance, until our feet bled and the world was completely against us.

 

Because we were never anything and at the same time everything. Because your navel knows more secrets than any brothel, and the running mascara of my cheeks sings the truth only to you, letting us again through ourselves into streams of stories that will be badly judged by inexpert eyes and frustrated hearts. Because we never drown.

 

Because missing US is the only thing that can be done, and trying to understand us is nothing but a desperate attempt to define us, which we never ended by never starting it. Because to miss US was inevitable when I left you, but even more it was to love US more with every step I took. Because now I know that I can, but don’t want to, live without you. Because I know that you neither. Because needles with nothing to knit are still needles, but the winter that I live without you passes faster with a scarf.

 

Because the only thing we did wrong was to find lies and specifications where there were none, unfairly judging a flower by its ability to survive in the frost. Because little by little we learned, demonstrating how true it is that you learn from experience and dreams that break when forced.

 

And I keep wondering why write US, when the only thing I want you to do is to pack your bags and keep on letting me travel this world by your side, recollecting stories that another wretch, who is actually good at it, will put into words in a sad attempt of life in little-believable memoirs and un-understandable feelings. Because we now that living from memories is not US.